Thou who canst bid the billows cease to roll,
Oh! smooth a pillow for my weary soul—
Watch o'er the pilgrim in his shadowy sleep,
And send sweet dreams to light the sullen deep!'
Thus spoke the maniac, while above he gazed,
And his pale hands beseechingly upraised;
Then on the viewless wind he swiftly sprung,
And far below his senseless form was flung;
A thin white spray told where he met the wave,
And battling surges thunder o'er his grave!